


Hell And Back Again

by daggerpen



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is 84 inches by 28 inches by 23 inches. He is currently trapped in it. There is no way out.</p>
<p>There is a list of warnings at the beginning of this.</p>
<p>Read them.</p>
<p>Heed them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Cowritten with [phoenixofborg](http://phoenixofborg.livejournal.com), who does not currently have an AO3 account.
> 
> WARNINGS: Fuck. Okay, here goes: Potential triggers for claustrophobia and fear of insects/spiders; eating insects/spiders, mouth being sealed/stitched shut, amphetamine abuse, asphyxiation, characters being buried alive, graphic violence, mental/emotional torture, depictions of post traumatic stress disorder, heart attacks, and liberal swearing.

In the end, this is all Bruce's fault. Jason is only doing what the old bastard never had the guts to do, what he _should_ have done a long time ago. But now Bruce is gone, and the clown has outlived him for too long already. 

The security is pathetic. Getting in is the hardest part, not that that's saying much. 

He takes out the cameras first. No backup, no alarm, nothing to catch him, to stand between him and his goal. The guards are next. Three of them, just outside the cell. Two tranqs for each. They won't wake up for hours, and he'll be long gone by then. 

Getting _him_ is the easy part. Just cut the alarm, then hit the panic button. Five seconds, and the knockout gas has flooded the psychopath's cage. Ten more, and he's out cold. Another fifty to open the door, using the unconscious guards' fingerprints and electronic keys and the code he'd bribed off an off-duty guard earlier, and he has him. He has him. 

He could just kill him now, he realizes, standing over the inert figure. It would be so damn easy. Just grab him and bash his skull against the floor until something cracks, wrap his hands around his throat and _squeeze_ , or even just snap his goddamn neck. In just a few seconds, everything could be over. The Joker would be dead. 

He's tempted. _Damn_ tempted. He's tired, so goddamn _tired_ of this, of _him_. He wants this to be _over_. But it's better than the bastard deserves. Killing him now, while the clown doesn't even know what's going on, never letting him know it was _him_ , never making him suffer just like every damn one of his victims had suffered, like _Jason_ had suffered... no. It's not right. He shouldn't have it that _easy_. If Jason has to be the one to do this, he's going to be damn sure the Joker _pays_. 

Revenge is going to be fucking sweet. 

And yeah, maybe he's being a little theatrical. So sue him. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. He's going to _enjoy_ this, especially since Saint Bats isn't around to stop him anymore. 

Everything is already set up when he arrives. A couple portable lights, make sure he can see what he's doing. Viewing station- three screens, each for a different camera (infrared, of course- he sure as hell wasn't going to put in _lights_ ), and a speaker. DVD recorder, too, ready to go -- just a push of a button away. Two-way radio. Shovel. Crowbar. 

Coffin. 

Not, y'know, _his_ coffin. Not even close. This one is solid steel -- he shudders at the thought -- and custom-built. Automatic locking, all mechanical, no electronics to fail or wiring to short. Lid slams, latches lock, and the casket floods with gas -- Scarecrow's special mixture, obtained with no small amount of trouble. He has no idea what it takes to actually _scare_ this fucked-up piece of shit, but he'll find out. And then a very short time later (maybe too short, maybe not short enough) it won't matter, because then he'll be _dead_ , and Jason swears he's going to see the body burned to ash, because he is making _damn fucking sure_. He has everything arranged already -- it's amazing what a guy can get done on the sly in Gotham. Body disposal? No problem. Not even for a body _this_ notorious. A little money in the right hands, a few words here and there, and suddenly there's fifty damn crematoriums that'll take it quietly, no questions asked. 

He's made sure they'll be alone. He'd paid the night watchmen to take the night off, and there's no fucking way anyone else might decide to pop in for a visit. Not at two in the morning. Not when there isn't even a damn body here to visit anymore. 

So it's just the two of them. Just him and the Joker, and no one here to stop him. No more Batman to interfere. Bruce is gone, after all, and the Joker'll be long dead by the time Goldie realizes the clown's gone. 

He dumps the unconscious fucker unceremoniously on the ground by the gravestone. He's tempted to just put him in the coffin now and watch as he wakes up, watch him realize where he is, watch him scream and claw for escape, just like Jason did all those years ago. Watch him, and laugh. 

But it's not good enough. Even that isn't good enough, not now. He needs to _pay_ , in every way imaginable. So he just picks up the crowbar and sits by the monitors, fingering the metal implement and waiting for the clown to wake. 

It doesn't take long, really. Maybe ten minutes later, and the Joker is starting to stir. Utterly silent, Jason stands and walks over beside him, letting the crowbar hang down by his side in a loose grip. The eyes flicker open, and Jason can see the whites reflecting in the dark. 

Droplets of blood spatter on the grass as Jason smashes it into the side of the fucker's face, the curved end of the crowbar leaving a short, ragged tear in bone-white skin. The soft, almost wet thud echoes faintly through the still night. 

Jason laughs. 

"Well, good morning, sunshine," he says sarcastically, booting the clown in the ribs. "Have a nice little nap? Because you're in for a big day today." He bends down to kneel over the figure, twisting a hand in his hair and jerking the head back. 

"You have _no_ idea how long I've been planning this," Jason begins, giving the crowbar an idle flourish. "This shouldn't even fucking be happening, you know that? Someone should have put a fucking bullet in you. Batman, those GCPD assholes -- someone should have _bucked up_ and _done their fucking job_ by now. But no, it comes down to _me_. The only one in this crapsack city who's not too self-righteous or cowardly to get their fucking hands dirty when they need to. Or both. Sometimes it's both, like the fucking Replacement, y'know? Someone should have put a bullet in you," he repeats. 

He's pretty sure he had had something better to say planned, at some point. Remembers coming up with something better during one of his many sleepless nights. But he can't -- can't remember what it was. 

Fuck it, he'll improvise. 

"Fucking Batman. You shouldn't even be my _problem_ ," he continues, planting a foot on the prone figure's chest. "This should've been over a long goddamn time ago." Seven years now, to be precise. "And I'm -- just -- _really_ fucking tired of it." The nightmares. The flashbacks. The insomnia, the long nights doing _anything_ to keep himself awake, the way he wants to puke every time he so much as _sees_ a goddamn crowbar, the way he can't even fucking take _elevators_ anymore, the _slipping_ in his mind sometimes. "This bullshit. Yours. His. _Everyone's_. And y'know what? Batman is gone now. And your little reprieve? Is over. All of this?" He gestures wildly with the crowbar. "Is fucking _over_." God, he can't wait for it to be over. He's so tired. Really, honestly fucking tired. 

He doesn't even care if he enjoys it any more. Just as long as the bastard pays. 

"See, me, I take this seriously." He swings the crowbar, revelling in the sick thrill in his stomach as he hears it thud against flesh. "I don't fuck around." Thump. "I don't let people _go_." Thump. 

For a long moment, the clown is silent. And then... laughter. The fucker just laughs at him. He's lying on the ground bleeding, and he's _laughing_ at _Jason_. 

"What, do you think this is funny!?" He grabs him, hauling him up by the collar. "You think I'm --" Thump. "--joking around!?" Thump. "Do I look like I'm smiling to you?" Thump. "...I said _LOOK_ at me, you son of a bitch! And stop!" Thump. "Fucking!" Thump. " _Laughing_!" he screams. 

Then, suddenly, Jason laughs, a breathless, manic noise without a drop of humor in it. "You just don't get it, do you? This is _it_ for you," he says, dropping the clown. "End of the line at last, seven years too late." He hefts the crowbar with a morbid, humorless grin. "And I _am_ going to enjoy this." 

And then faster than he can react, his knee buckles, and he's tumbling to the ground, the crowbar slipping from his grasp. 

_What the--_

The Joker's fist is halfway to Jason's face before he really registers that the clown's hands are free, and for a moment, all he can think is _how_? Fucking cheap-ass zip ties. Then the Joker's on him, and then there's blood in his mouth and stars dancing behind his eyes. His vision clears just in time for him to see the dull glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. 

_Crowbar._

Oh _fuck_. 

First swing -- overhand, like he's chopping wood -- hits him in the shoulder. He stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet. Second one underhand like a golfer's swing, and Jason feels the sharp, curved end dig into his gut, knocking away his breath. Next, lower back. Then the shoulder again. He's frozen in place now, and damn it, he knows he can fight this, he _can't_ just be this fucking _helpless_ again-- 

Five. Six. Seven, and he can't get back to all fours before the next blow lands, let alone get his feet under him. He hears a dull _thud_ \-- he'd dropped it, he dropped the crowbar, where did it land? Jason gropes for it, but the bastard just _laughs_ and kicks him sharply in the stomach. 

Jason rolls, and then the ground drops away beneath him, and he lands heavily in the bottom of the hole -- the _grave_. He lets out a gasp as he hits the metal surface, _hard_ , then blinks, staring blankly at the gray steel beside him. He's-- 

No. No no no no. He tries to scramble out, but he's not fast enough,and the lid swings shut with a _slam_ , hitting him in the forehead. 

He hears a quiet _click_ as his oh-so-clever little auto-locking mechanisms do their job, and everything is dark. 

Jason's breath catches in his throat. 

_No._

He should have used handcuffs, should have just stuffed him in here while he was unconscious. Should have just _shot_ the motherfucker when he had the chance. 

Should have left himself an escape route, just to be sure. 

There's a hissing sound in the dark, and he smells something acrid and sulphuric for a moment -- the _gas_. 

No, wait. That's wrong. Not acrid. Musty, thick with chemicals and decay, and just a little sweetness. Mold and dirt, death and formaldehyde. Awful and familiar and very, very real -- none of his nightmares ever had that _smell_. 

Something is touching him. Some _things_ , lots of them, tiny, squirming somethings. Oh god, he remembers now. He'd almost managed to forget that part. Six months dead and the coffin was filled with insects. Ants, beetles, worms, _maggots_. All of them crawling, crawling over his hands, his skin, inside his clothes and on his _face_. He brushes them away, but there are always more, more, falling from the coffin lid onto him. Tiny burning pin-pricks of ant bites, spiders crawling across his eyes. 

His lips. He's- God, his mouth is sealed, sewed shut, and some little voice in the back of his mind tells him that the mortician must have sealed his lips shut for the funeral, trying to make sure the tongue didn't loll, gross and swollen, trying to make him look less _dead_. When Jason screams, he tears it open, and tastes blood. 

Now they fall into his mouth and nose as he screams and gasps for air, feels them writhing against his _tongue_. He can taste bitter ooze as they're crushed between his teeth when he tries to spit them out, the crunching and his coughing loud in his ears. He's choking on them, gagging as they wriggle at the back of his throat. 

He can't get a grip on the coffin lid, not a scrape, not even a splinter. Nothing but an ineffectual raspy skittering against the surface, like a fucking _dog_ scratching on the door to be let in. He slams his fists against the unyielding surface, sending bolts of pain through his bones as his hand meets metal. 

And then he hears it. That _laughter_. Shrill, mocking laughter, distorted by the soft crackle of the radio and amplified by the confined space. Low at first, barely audible over his own panicked sobs and gasps, then louder, louder and louder until the whole coffin is ringing with it, splitting through his skull. 

He screams. 

There's a loud _thump_ , followed by a series of rhythmic, softer thumps, up and down the coffin. Pacing? He's on the lid? 

"Aww. Poor _baby_!" Oh god, that _voice_. "Did widdle Hoodie fall into his own trap? Well, _good_. Kids these days. No respect for their elders and betters." 

"Shut up shut up shut _up_!" He's babbling incoherently, not really aware of his own words until he hears them reflected back to him, echoing against the steel. 

"Mmmm... no, I don't think so. You've got a pretty sweet setup here, Red. Leaving before the show's over would be just. Plain. Rude. Don't you think?" 

"Kill- I'm going to, going to _kill_ you." God, why won't this _break_? His fist is wet with blood now, trickling down from the split skin on his knuckles, smearing across the steel. There's a crack, and another flare of pain down his hand, worse than any before, and he realizes slowly that the finger is broken. 

"I don't think so. You tried! You failed! Better luck next ti -- no, wait, I'm sorry. There won't _be_ a next time. Shame, really. You were just starting to get... fun. Really. I mean that!" the high voice insists with false sincerity. "This? This must have taken some real prep, some real effort. Mind like a -- heh -- _steel trap_. You just don't see that kind of pizazz in the criminal element anymore," he laments. 

He can hear his own ragged breathing, agonizingly loud, hear the blood pounding in his ears, his heart racing in his throat, fast, painfully loud and fast. Can still feel the legs crawling all over him, inside his jacket and under his shirt. 

Breathe. No, he needs to- needs to breathe, needs to stop and just breathe and think and there's not enough air and God, his heart _hurts_ and he doesn't know why- 

" _Stop_!" he screams without realizing it. His face is wet, and after a few seconds, he realizes he's crying. 

The Joker just laughs. 

Another crack. Another broken finger. Jason can't repress a quiet, panicked sob, shoving up on the lid with everything he has. Frantically, he tries to think, tries to remember the plans, the layout, something, _anything_ to tell him how he can _get out_. His thoughts are racing, the memories eluding him, slipping through his fingers every time he thinks he has one. 

"You should be _proud_ of yourself, Jason!" he croons. "This? This is just _perfect_. Couldn't have done better myself. Well -- I would have picked Africa, just for symmetry, but maybe that's just me. Besides, who wants to deal with airlines these days? The hassle, the crowds -- why go overseas to hurt the Bat when we can do it right here in his own backyard? Kudos, kid. I owe you one." 

Please. Please, God, there has to be- has to be something- 

There's _nothing_. No way out from the inside. He _made sure_. God help him, he made sure. 

He's trapped. He's trapped, and he's going to die again. 

Distantly, he registers that the pacing has stopped. Then-- "Oh, and it _records_ , too!" the Joker squawks with undisguised glee. "Oh, Jay, you really _did_ think of everything!" He descends into manic giggles for a few moments. "I just _have_ to share this with Batsy once we're done. It would be rude not to share." 

"No-" he starts, his breath catching in his throat, and he doesn't even know what he's protesting now- 

Again, he claws at the lid, panicked and desperate, choking down screams as he feels his nails being ripped from his flesh, his skin shredding against the sharp, thin splinters, and still the wood won't _break_. He covers his mouth with a hand to choke down a sob, blood smearing across his face. Meanwhile, the Joker continues ranting, undeterred. 

"...Just too bad he can't be here in the flesh. No mere recording can ever compare to a _live_ performance. But you know how he can be -- _such_ a spoilsport. No idea of how an audience should behave," he complains. "You laugh, you cry, you applaud! You don't _smash the stage_. Philist--" 

The mocking whine cuts off abruptly. Now it's just Jason, alone in the dark, alone with the maggots and the smell of rot and his own fear. "Don't leave!" he cries incoherently. "Don't leave me!" 

No. No no no no no no _no_. He can't be alone. Can't think, can't breathe, and there's nothing but the squirming and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He's slipping, he can't do this and he's going to die and -- 

That _laugh_. "Oh, that's so _precious_! 'Don't leeeeeeeave me', indeed." Oh god, had he really said that? He'd said that. "Don't worry, Boy Blunder, I wouldn't miss _this_ for all the money in Gotham." 

Something- something, there has to be _something_ \-- with fumbling hands, he gropes for his belt, searching wildly in the dark, and it's not- it's not there, he's not in costume, he's not in costume, why isn't he -- 

"Batman," he whimpers quietly, arching his head back against the padded lining. "Bruce, please, God--" 

"Sorry, sweetie, but Batman isn't here right now -- it's just you and me. Can I take a message?" There's a pause. "And who's _Bruce_?" 

"Help me!" he screams. 

"No." Jason freezes as he hears the familiar voice, because he can't, it can't be, he wouldn't -- "No. You don't _deserve_ to be rescued." 

Bruce. He swings his head around wildly, as if he could somehow see the man in the dark. "Wh--" 

"I can't believe I wasted my time on trash like you. I should have left you in the gutters with the rest of the garbage." 

"No-- Bruce, what--" He's frozen now, hands pressed rigidly against the lid. 

"Pathetic. Weak, and pathetic. You _deserve_ to die like this." 

"No- nonononono, please, _please_ \-- don't _do_ this to me!" 

He can't breathe. It feels like his throat is closing in on itself, or maybe like his chest is. He opens his mouth, trying to find the air to protest as the voice continues, laughter ringing in his ears. 

"... worthless..." 

"No, please--" 

"... not losing you already, are we, Boy Blunder?" 

"Stop--" 

"... couldn't even..." 

Laughter. 

"... disgusting..." 

Static. 

Silence. 

Pain. 

Burning. 

And then something touches him, too firm and heavy to be insects, and he lashes out against it. No, he's not going to let them get him, won't let them grab him and hold him still for the goddamn clown and- 

He can't breathe, his chest is- 

Hurts... No, worse than hurts. He feels like someone cracked him right down the center, white-hot agony spreading across his torso. The coffin is collapsing, crushing him under the weight. Better or worse than suffocating? 

Jason is dying. He knows it right in his gut, in the pain swallowing his chest. He can't remember if it was like this before. 

He stares up blankly at the sky, bright spots of color popping into and out of his field of vision, blackness gathering at the edges, and somewhere in the back of his head he's wondering why there's suddenly light, but he doesn't have long to think before everything slowly fades to black. 

... _thump._

Pain. Sudden, blinding pain, sending shudders through his whole body. 

_Thump._

The pain again, and noise. Loud, staticky noise, and the faint reek of ozone. He tries to turn away, but can't. 

_Thump._

Pain. Static. Ringing in his ears, getting louder. 

_Thump_. 

"...ason?" 

Air. There's a sudden, painful prickling in his lungs, his chest expanding as if of its own accord, sucking in heaving, desperate breaths. 

"Jason, are you with me?" The voice echoes faintly, distant and somehow muffled. 

_Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump--_

There's a groan, and after a few moments he realizes absently it was his. Slowly, as though on their own, his eyes flicker open, revealing a vague blur of features. 

"Wh--" he manages, blinking a few times. There's a faint prick of-- something-- and he turns to look automatically, staring at the needle in his arm without really processing the significance. 

He turns and stares back up, the features finally resolving themselves into-- 

Into-- 

"Jason? Are you with me?" comes the voice, this time clear and present. 

"... worthless..." he hears in the back of his head, echoing distantly. 

"Bruce--" Oh god. "Bruce, I'm sorry," he begins, the words falling out of his mouth all at once, tripping over each other as he tries to apologize unintelligibly. " I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll do better, I swear, I'll be good. Don't leave me, don't put me back, please, I'm sorry, I just... I can't, I can't... please, I'm so sorry, I can be better, don't throw me away--" He's clinging, clutching, desperate and terrified that Bruce is going to _leave_ him here in the dark with the laughter and the insects crawling on him. 

"Jason," the gravelly voice says simply. Batman grips him firmly by the arms, but does not push him away. Jason breaks off, staring up at him without comprehension. "Calm down. You're safe." 

Jason blinks at him, breathing heavily, watching him with disbelief. 

He's not-- he's not-- why isn't he-- he'd just _said_ , he _heard_ him and now he's telling him-- 

It doesn't make sense, it doesn't make _any_ sense, and there's something-- something off, something _wrong_ , something itching at the back of his brain, telling him that this can't be real, that there's something he's missing, something he needs to remember... 

Batman. Bruce is Batman, and of course he is, he's always been, but that's not right, it can't be because... 

Dick. 

Dick's supposed to be the one wearing the cowl. Because Bruce -- Bruce is _dead_. 

"Oh God," he exhales in horrified understanding. This isn't real. This can't be real. Bruce is Batman, but Bruce is _dead_ , and this isn't real. It's a -- dream. Hallucination. Something. Bruce is dead, Bruce did not, couldn't have let him out of the coffin. 

Jason is still dying. 

He wants to cry, to arch back his head and scream and sob and he knows it's useless, knows that this isn't real and he's going to die and there's _nothing_ he can do to save himself. He shoves at not-Bruce, but he won't let go. 

"Get off." 

"Jason --" 

"You're not real.. You're _dead_. Don't touch me, don't touch me you're not _real_." He's still there. He's still sealed away in an airtight box, dying, oh God, he's going to die again, he's going to suffocate and it's all his own damn fault. 

"Jason, calm down--" 

"Let _go_ of me!" he screams. "I'm going to _die_ , I can't die again!" He needs to- he needs to wake up, needs to wake up and get out and goddamnit, why won't he let _go_? This isn't real, none of this is real, why can't he _wake up_? 

"Damn it," he hears vaguely, but he's not listening, trying to get away and he can't-- "B1 to B2. I've got H, but he's --" A pause. "Compromised. I'm bringing him in. Have A prep med bay." 

Jason jerks his head back, trying to knock himself awake against the metal surface he _knows_ is at his back. But he feels nothing, only air and Bruce's grip on his arms. "No-- no, damn it, why won't it--" 

"Jason. Listen to me. You're safe now." No, no he's not. He's trapped, and he can't listen, can't, he has to-- He claws at the dream-Bruce, fighting to free himself from Batman's grip. 

"Stop!" he screams desperately. This isn't real, isn't real, why can't he wake up? 

Finally, Batman lets go of one arm, and Jason uses it to try and pry away his fingers so he can get free, so he can get out. He struggles wildly against the hold, hitting, kicking, thrashing as he feels himself being pinned to the ground, held down. 

Then suddenly, there's a sharp, stinging pain at the side of his neck, and almost immediately, the world begins to fade at the edges, slowly turning black. 

_No_ , he thinks, clinging frantically to consciousness, to the scraps of reality he can still feel. _No, no, please, not again..._

And then once more, everything is dark.


	2. And Back Again

The first thing he's aware of is noise. Muffled, at first, distant, vague and unintelligible, as though filtered through layers of cotton. Then, slowly, the sound begins to resolve itself into words. 

"...somewhere more secure." Distant voice. Male, familiar. Jason suppresses the urge to move until he can identify it. 

He's- where is he? He's dimly aware of something soft beneath him, and something pressing against his wrists. 

"The Cave is sufficient. Jason is in no condition to go anywhere." Bruce? No, it can't be... 

"...You say that now." Third voice, also male, also familiar. 

"Yes, I do." 

"I think he'll be fine where he is -- for the moment. The man just had a heart attack, he's not about to escape." Dick. That's Dick talking. So the third voice has to be -- 

"I still wouldn't put it past him to _try_." Yeah, Tim. 

"Nonetheless--" the first speaker- no, that _can't_ be him, he's dead, but Jason _knows_ that voice- breaks off. "He's awake. We will continue this discussion later." 

Footsteps. Getting closer. Slowly, Jason forces his eyes open, wincing at the lights overhead. 

"Jason," he hears. Squinting against the brightness, he turns his head slightly -- ah, God, why does that hurt so much? -- to look at its source. 

Bruce. Bruce, still wearing the Batman suit, cowl down, just like before, like nothing'd ever changed. 

There's a faint screeching noise as the man pulls a chair over next to him, sitting down by his side. For a few long moments, they just stare at each other, Bruce watching him calmly, Jason looking back with vague, numb incomprehension. 

"...You're dead," is all Jason can manage. The words are faint and hoarse, his mouth dry. Bruce just looks at him. 

"No. Nor was I ever. But I was gone. It was very... complicated." His mouth quirks like he's trying to smile, but there's no joy in it. "I'm back. As you can see." 

Jason watches him with a sort of stunned disbelief. He could be lying, but... there wouldn't be much of a point. And it's not like Bruce coming back is out of the fucking question. _He_ had, after all. 

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asks, the obligatory question. 

Jason gives him a flat, exhausted stare. Bruce gives a short nod. 

"Your bloodwork shows you've been taking methylphenidate," Bruce continues quietly, in a bland tone that somehow seems to demand explanation. "Amphetamines." 

"...Couldn't sleep." Jason doesn't meet his eyes. 

"And you felt that stimulants were the proper response?" He leaves off the 'obviously counterproductive' part. 

"No, I -- I couldn't... couldn't _let_ myself sleep." 

"Why not?" Bruce asks. Jason doesn't respond, still looking away. 

After a few moments' pause, Bruce continues, "You're well over the maximum dosage for your body weight. When you were additionally subjected to the fear toxin, the combination led to ventricular tachycardia, followed by myocardial infarction. A heart attack. Do you remember?" 

He shrugs weakly, staring resolutely at the wall. His chest aches, yeah, but so do his hands, his shoulders, his head, his stomach-- his everywhere, pretty much. But he doesn't remember. Not that much, at least. 

He only wishes he couldn't remember the rest. Jason shudders involuntarily as memory comes rushing back, stomach lurching, horror rising in the back of his throat. 

He feels like he's going to be sick. Jason tries to sit up, to-- to-- he doesn't know what, but it doesn't matter anyways, because his movement is suddenly halted by a tugging at his wrists. Startled, he glances down at them, and registers for the first time the restraints fastening him to the bed. 

"What--?" 

"You were delirious. Unbalanced," Bruce explains calmly. 

That's a lie, or at least a half-truth, and he knows it. Even if he hadn't been, they would never have left him loose. And he doubts that Bruce is going to just untie him now that he's lucid. 

Silently, Jason lets himself fall back to the mattress, turning his head away from the man. He feels... numb. Numb, tired, and a little sick. 

He had almost died again. Would have if it hadn't been for Bruce. Would have suffocated, panicking and hallucinating in his own trap while the goddamn clown's laughter rung in his ears. And it would have been all his own damn fault, would have been because he was too weak, too stupid, because he failed _again_. 

He feels the sudden urge to scream, and bites down on his tongue. 

It still hurts everywhere. Bruce isn't saying anything, just watching him with a worried (curious?) expression. And Jason is... being way too calm about this. About what happened. He feels like... like everything's distant, somehow, like there's something holding his brain down, the same way the bed restraints are holding him. Like his mind's still too fuzzy, his reactions too sluggish. He knows this feeling. Sedatives. 

"You drugged me." There's no anger in his voice. It's not an accusation. Just... an observation, a realization. 

"Yes," Bruce replies simply. 

Jason doesn't really have anything to say to that. He wants to ask about the Joker, but -- no. He doesn't. It's _Bruce_ , he knows the answer, and he doesn't want to hear it. _Can't_ hear it, not right now, not ever. 

"What happens now?" he asks instead, staring at the ceiling. 

"What do you mean?" Jason hears Bruce shift in his chair. 

"You planning to... what, keep me tied to a bed forever?" he continues in a flat tone. 

"I'd rather not have to." 

"Right." He twists his wrists against the bindings idly, more out of a general need to move than any real effort to slip them. After a moment, he stops abruptly and turns to look into Bruce's eyes. "What are you going to do with me?" he asks quietly. 

"I can't let you go," he states baldly. 

"Yeah. I know." Maybe it's the drugs talking, or maybe it's just that, after everything else, it's just so goddamn unimportant, but he's not as upset by that as he ought to be. 

"There are... multiple options, Jason," he continues slowly. Jason doesn't respond, waiting for him to continue. "One is treatment at a secure psychiatric facility." 

"Arkham?" It's the same dull (dead) tone as before. 

"No. Not Arkham. Elsewhere." But that isn't much better. Just another freak factory full of white coats and padded walls. Even the idea makes him sick. "Alternatively--" Bruce hesitates. "You can stay here." 

"'Here'?" Jason repeats, wondering vaguely exactly where "here" is. They're in the Cave... he thinks? He's honestly not sure. It probably doesn't matter. He doesn't even know where Bruce means, specifically. 

"Yes," Bruce replies quietly. "You would be limited to the Manor grounds, but you would have free run, minus some of the more... sensitive areas. And there would be... security measures implemented to ensure you follow those restrictions." 

... Jason doesn't know how he feels about that one. He doesn't know if he'd even leave if he could. Not right now. 

... Right now, he kind of just wants to curl up in a little ball somewhere quiet and break down. Possibly while hitting something. 

"You don't have to decide immediately. You're injured and exhausted. I can't give you much for the pain, at the moment -- not with the other drugs in your system -- but I can give you something to help you sleep --" 

"No!" Jason gasps, "No, I can't, I can't --" 

"Jason--" Bruce begins, but Jason cuts him off. 

" _No_!" 

"Jason, calm down." 

"Bruce, please, you _can't_ \--" 

"You need sleep." 

"I can't." 

"Jason--" 

" _Please_ ," he begs. 

Bruce is silent for a moment. "I won't give you anything if you won't accept it, Jason," he says quietly, "But you need sleep, and I doubt you will be able to hold it off even if you try." 

... he's right. Jason bites his lip, arching his head back and staring up at the ceiling. 

Fuck. 

... he can't, he can't fucking deal with this right now, can't handle another goddamn nightmare now, can't even handle what's already happened today, and there's no way in hell he'll be able to keep himself awake. 

He wants to scream. 

"Would you -- Jason, do you need to be left alone?" 

" _No_ ," he responds, far too quickly. Can't be alone. Not again. 

"All right." Bruce shifts in his chair, settling. Jason doesn't look, turning his head towards the opposite wall. 

Silence. 

He doesn't want to sleep, but he can feel the exhaustion right down in his bones. He knows nightmares are lying in wait for him, like predators or something, hunting him, and if he lets his guard down he -- 

He wakes up in the coffin, heaving gasps of musty, dank air -- air he knows is running out. 

Oh God. 

It wasn't real, none of it. Bruce isn't alive, Bruce didn't save him. 

He's going to die again. 

Jason screams, panic, fear and frustration all pouring out into the cry. And -- oh God, there he is. 

"Jason! Baby! Did you really think we were done?" Laughing. Oh God, the _laughter_ , splitting through his skull... 

"Stop," he whimpers, slamming uselessly at the lid, long slivers of wood sliding under his nails as he claws desperately. His nails are broken and splintered, his knuckles shredded almost to the bone, and still the wood won't _break_. 

He sobs, pounding on the ceiling of his prison again and again, sending bolts of agony shooting through every bone in his broken body, all in vain. 

The Joker is still laughing, taunting him, mocking him without pause. Jason wants to scream, to shout at him to shut up and stop fucking laughing, but he can't, because his air is running out, running lower and lower and he's gasping for breath, sucking in deep lungfuls of air that do nothing to relieve the growing burn of _need_ in his chest. 

He can't breathe. He's out of oxygen, and bright spots of color are starting to appear in the dark. He's getting lightheaded now, dizzy, and no, no, he can't do this again, he can't-- 

"Jason." 

Hands. Someone is shaking him. His whole body jerks as Jason snaps suddenly back into consciousness, moving instinctively to attack, only for his movement to be cut short by the restraints. Jason struggles blindly to break them, to escape. 

"Jason. Wake up." That voice, he knows that voice, and Jason whips his head around to face its source, breathing raggedly as he stares uncomprehendingly at Bruce. 

"Are you with me?" the man continues in a gentle tone. For a few seconds, Jason can only stare at him before his words finally register and he nods slowly, still gasping slightly for breath. "Nightmare?" Bruce asks, and Jason nods again. "Do you want to talk about it?" He shakes his head this time. No, God no. "All right," Bruce says, and they fall into silence. 

Jason can hear himself breathing. Hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was all so very... very _close_. 

"... I almost died again," he says quietly, barely more than a whisper, more to himself than anything. Bruce makes a sort of noncommittal noise like he's not sure what to say to that, and reaches out as if to touch Jason's hair. 

Jason flinches, and Bruce pulls back his hand. Instead, he rests it cautiously on Jason's restrained wrist, and -- and it's hard for Jason to not grab his hand and cling to it. 

"But you didn't," Bruce finally replies, after so long a pause that Jason has to think to remember what he said to prompt that statement. "You survived, Jason." 

Jason laughs. Without humor, quietly, almost hysterically, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Like hell he did. He feels like he's been put through a meat grinder, and he _knows_ he wouldn't have survived the experience if he hadn't been _rescued_. 

By _Batman_ , no less. Who by all rights shouldn't even care what happens to Jason anymore. 

He laughs again, sharp and broken. Bruce says nothing, but the hand on his wrist tightens, and Jason does grab the hand this time, shuddering and clutching as he falls silent. 

For a while, they sit there in silence. "Jason..." Bruce begins after a while. "I don't want to keep you down here. Do you remember what I offered before?" 

Jason nods. "Nuthouse or..." he trails off. 

"Or you stay here in the Manor," Bruce finishes. Jason doesn't respond. After a few moments Bruce says quietly, almost inaudibly, "... I would like you to stay, Jason," 

"... Okay." 

There's a long pause, neither of them saying anything, neither of them really looking at each other. Then-- "Thank you," Bruce says, so softly Jason's not even sure he heard it. 

Jason doesn't respond. He doesn't know what to say to that. 

After what seems like a very long time, Bruce stands abruptly, the quiet screeching of the chair against the floor cutting sharply through the stillness. Bruce turns to leave, and suddenly, Jason's breath is caught in his throat. 

"Don't--" he begins, almost panickedly. 

"I'll be right back," Bruce reassures him. 

"Don't. Please." 

Bruce pauses for a moment, watching him as though searching for-- something. Jason doesn't know what. "... I would like to move you upstairs now, Jason." Jason doesn't respond, and Bruce continues, "I mentioned security measures. One of them is a pair of tracking bracelets. I need to get them before I can take you up to the Manor." 

"Can't I just come with you to get them?" It comes out needier than he'd intended, and he's sorry as soon as he says it. No, he can't because there's security to consider, and this is Bruce they're talking about. 

"All right," Bruce replies, surprising him. Deftly, he unhooks the IV in his arm, taping gauze over the small puncture wound, then removes the restraints, stepping back to let Jason stand. He gets up slowly, rubbing his wrists absently as he moves to follow Bruce. 

It isn't far. Bruce motions for him to sit by the workbench as they enter the main Cave. The 'bracelets' are thin hard-plastic bands, black with no obvious markings or vulnerabilities. Compact, unobtrusive, and he's almost surprised he'd expected anything else, because after all, it's _Batman_. 

"If you attempt to leave the grounds or tamper with either bracelet, they will administer a sedative immediately," Bruce explains. Jason blinks, wondering when Bruce had time to build them. 

"How long was I out?" he asks, and he's almost surprised by how -- _numb_ he sounds. 

"When we first brought you home? Close to ten hours. Just now? Around two. It's early in the afternoon right now." Bruce walks over to stand next to him. "Give me your hands," he tells him. The command isn't harsh, or apologetic, just-- brusque, matter-of-fact. Jason obeys automatically, watching detachedly as Bruce secures them around his wrists, each bracelet sealing shut with a faint hissing noise. He lets his arms drop as Bruce finishes. 

"That it?" he asks in the same quiet, dead tone. 

"Yes." Bruce turns. "Let's head upstairs." 

* * *

It's almost three in the afternoon right now. 2:53 exactly, says the clock by the bed. It's a nice day out, too- clear, sunny, just a bit of a breeze, blowing in through the windows in his room he'd thrown open as soon as Bruce had left. He resists the urge to get up and check if they open any wider, again. It's fine. It's not like the Manor's exactly airtight in the first place. 

Jason forces himself to close his eyes, trying to settle into the mattress. He's dea-- _ridiculously_ tired, his aborted nap earlier only serving to heighten his exhaustion, rather than taking any of the edge off. He needs sleep. He knows he needs sleep. 

... the bed is soft. Too soft, really, after the boxsprings and beat-up couches that he'd been sleeping on in various safehouses for the past few years. He shifts his position on top of the covers, trying to get comfortable. 

He's going to have another nightmare. He fucking always had nightmares, even before... 

Before... 

Oh God. He presses a hand to his mouth, biting back a sob. He can't do this. He can't sleep, he can't go there again, he _can't_. 

His hands. Two splinted fingers on his right hand, one on his left. All his knuckles swollen and mottled with bruises under the older scarring. 

No cuts. Of course not. There were no splinters, no shredding -- he'd been wearing his _gloves_ for Chrissake, his obsessively reinforced gauntlets that he'd fine-tuned _specifically_ so he'd never have to wreck his hands again. Even so, he would have sworn up and down that his hands should have been torn to pieces. 

He hadn't been thinking clearly. He'd forgotten the gloves, forgotten -- 

Oh God. 

His _jacket_. How many tricks and toys did he have in there that he hadn't even thought to try? Acids, his micro-torch... he should have been able to get the coffin open with _something_. Probably would have wound up with a nasty burn on his chest, but -- 

God. He's incompetent. Such a goddamn failure. He -- 

He had an _antidote_. He'd _made sure he had an antidote when he started playing with the goddamn fear gas_. And he'd been too _stupid_ to use it, because he was too busy squalling like a frightened _child_. 

His fault. It'd all been his own damn fault, all been because he was too much of a fucking failure to do _anything_ right. If Bruce hadn't saved him, he would have died of stupidity and fucking _deserved_ it. 

He laughs, bitter, mirthless and wild, at his own idiocy, laughs until he's crying, sobbing into his own hands, tears streaming down the sides of his face. If there were anything in his stomach, he'd throw up, but as is there's nothing but dry heaves. 

God. He's such a-- such a goddamn mess. He gasps for air, breath still coming in heaving, shuddering sobs. He's completely drained, but he can't close his eyes without feeling like the world is going to collapse in on him, crush him under the dirt. 

He can't sleep. He can't stay awake. He can't think. He can't _stop_ thinking, stop remembering. He almost wants to look for a distraction, to find something, anything to take his mind off things, but honestly, he doesn't really think he could focus on anything anyways. 

... he kind of wishes Bruce was here right now. He... he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. 

Or alone, period. 

He knows that Bruce is down the hall, napping, like Jason's supposed to be doing. Just down the hall. Not that far away. And it's not like he's just going to leave all of a sudden or anything. It'll be fine. He'll be fine. 

He'll be _fine_. Jason bites down on his knuckles, hard, to smother a whimper. Bruce is right down the hall. He can-- if he _needs_ to-- it's _fine_ \-- 

Goddammit. He just-- he can't be alone right now. 

Jason feels like he's fucking _five_ when he sneaks into Bruce's room with a pillow tucked under his arm. Bruce doesn't stir, but Jason knows he knows he's there, and has no illusions to the contrary. 

If the mattress was too soft, the armchair is a lot more like what he's used to. Ironically enough, though, it's harder to get comfortable -- the chair doesn't recline or anything, so he just kind of curls up awkwardly, knees pulled to his chest, head resting at an angle against the pillow. It's not anything close to a relaxing position, but... Bruce is _here_. That's more than good enough. He closes his eyes. 

"Would you like me to bring you in a mattress?" For all that he knew Bruce had to have been awake, Jason still jumps about a mile in the air at the other man's question. 

... he'd kind of been hoping Bruce wouldn't call him on this. 

"... I'm okay here." 

"You are not sleeping there, Jason." 

"I'm not, I just needed to..." he trails off, not really knowing how to finish that sentence. Bruce sits up slowly, and Jason bites the inside of his lip, trying and failing to pretend to himself he's not suddenly fucking _terrified_ Bruce is going to just kick him out or something, then feeling utterly pathetic for it. 

"Jason--" 

"It's fine, okay? I'll just-- go." Jason retreats from the room with as much dignity as he can muster while holding a pillow. 

He lasts all of ten minutes before the dead silence drives him back to check that yes, Bruce is still there. 

He is, of course. And on the floor is a spare mattress, presumably from one of the guest rooms. God damn him. That's just -- embarrassing. 

Which does not stop him from curling up on it, positioning himself so he can keep a wary eye on Bruce. 

The other man doesn't seem to notice, and even though Jason knows he's pretending, he's still pretty damn grateful for the gesture. 

The mattress is still too soft, but he'll deal. 

He doesn't even realize he's falling asleep until he jolts awake. Bruce is making a production of getting up, very deliberately waking him without actually making Jason admit he's there. 

He jumps anyways at the first hint of motion, and hates himself for it. 

Bruce leaves without a word. There's the smell of food from down the hall, explaining just where the other man is going, and suddenly both making Jason intimately aware of just how empty his stomach is and bringing a sudden, renewed wave of nausea at the thought of eating. 

But he follows Bruce downstairs anyway. 

They're not alone. Bruce and Alfred are there, obviously, but so are Dick, Tim and Damian. 

Out of the five people present, he has attacked three, more than once. Hell, Damian only got an out because he'd been busy working on his 'master plan' to kill the Joker since the little runt's been Robin. 

'Awkward' doesn't really begin to cover it. 

Yeah, he really doesn't feel like eating. But he also hasn't had anything to eat since... not for a while, anyway. 

He doesn't eat much. A bit more than half a sandwich, and a couple of bites of some type of bizarre rice dish thing he doesn't know the name for. He doesn't talk. They're all watching him. He tries not to really look at any of them, kind of staring at his food while keeping Bruce in the corner of his eye. 

He wonders if being alone would be so bad still, now that he's not trying to sleep. He could find somewhere nice, somewhere open, with plenty of windows. Maybe take a walk outside -- it's still light out. He doesn't know exactly how far out the bracelets'll let him go, but as long as he stays near the Manor, he should be fine. 

If he can stand to be alone. 

... it's not like the company's all that great, either. Really, he'll be fine. 

He leaves his plate, still half-full of food, on the table, not saying anything as he leaves. The room is utterly silent as he walks out. 

It's been a long time since he's been in the Manor. Everything's different. Not completely, but enough that it annoys the fuck out of him. It takes him a good four wrong turns to remember that the place had to have been rebuilt after the earthquake. Fuck. No wonder. 

Eventually, he comes to the library, with its high ceilings and glass walls, and settles onto one of the chairs, staring outside. 

Silence. Jason fidgets, adjusting the trackers on his wrist absently -- then stops when he realizes he has no idea how sensitive their definition of 'tampering' is. He doesn't know how Bruce'd react if they went off, but he doesn't really want to find out. 

... maybe he should get a book or something. Or find a TV, actually, because he's sure there's got to be one in here somewhere and he's not too sure how well he'll be able to focus right now. 

Or maybe he'll just sit here and stare out the windows, trying not to think. 

He's still tired. He feels -- he can't quite describe it, it's like his mind can't quite get a grip on any one thought. He doesn't know if he's feeling the amphetamine withdrawal or just... _everything_. 

God, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had just -- God, it had all slipped out of control so fast... maybe it'd never been _in_ his control in the first place. The pills had been logical because the nightmares kept him from sleeping _anyway_ and so he might as well be functional. And -- only just now is he counting just how often he swapped them out for sleep. He's not actually sure when the last time he slept more than a few hours was, before he -- before he went after the Joker. That had been logical, too, everything had -- had made _sense_. 

He should have just shot him. God, he'd made so many mistakes, he'd fucked up so much, probably been too damn strung out on the fucking pills and lack of sleep to even see them, really... 

And then there had been the coffin. Why the _hell_ had he -- God, he'd -- he'd been -- 

He'd only had some rice and half a sandwich, but he loses it all anyway. 

* * *

Alfred makes him eat. He does that -- that thing, that Jason had almost forgotten and couldn't quite define, where he makes a guy feel guilty for skipping meals without actually guilt-tripping him. Crackers and soup. Like he's -- like Jason has a cold or something. Maybe Alfred is on to something, though, because it stays down even when he thinks about -- even when his mind wanders. 

And his mind wanders a lot. 

He's been ho-- been at the Manor for the better part of a week. Five days, or maybe six, counting the time he was out. Bruce has been having him take medicine -- aspirin, for his heart or whatever, and small doses of the same uppers that fucked him up in the first place. Apparently withdrawal is a concern. All Jason can think is just how little he's taking now, and wonder just how much he'd been downing. He hadn't even realized how far he'd gone. 

God. He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up big time. 

And he doesn't even know what the hell to do about it. 

He's honestly lost count of the number of flashbacks he's had. 

He's not always sure what triggers them. Sometimes it seems like a crapshoot what will set him off. (Ants on the windowsill, one skittering across his hand. An unexpected bark of laughter from the television set. A slammed door that he could have sworn sounded like a _lid_ banging shut.) 

It's like wandering drunk though a goddamn minefield. And it's really starting to piss him off. Only slightly less annoying are the _looks_ he keeps getting, from Bruce, Alfred, and Dick. Pity. Fucking _pity_. 

It would help if he could at least get _away_ from the looks, but when he's the only one in a room, he gets -- breathless. No matter how big the room is, he feels like it's closing in on him as soon as he's alone in it. Even going outside only alleviates the feeling a little. So instead, he ends up following them around the house, most of the time, trying and failing to pretend he isn't, hating the others for their goddamn pity and utterly unable to do without them. 

When it happens, he and Dick are watching the news -- or Dick's pretending to watch the news while he sneaks sidelong looks at Jason like he expects him to explode, and Jason's just letting the dull, droning talk-show voices blot out everything else in his mind without actually processing the information. 

Then he sees his face on the screen, the image hitting him like a punch to the stomach. 

"... after his mysterious escape and re-apprehension earlier this week, the notorious terrorist known as the Joker was moved from an undisclosed hospital back to the secure facilities at Arkham..." 

And all he can see is his face, leering at him from the screen, taunting him, and all he can hear is the laughter ringing in his ears, feeling the stinging blows of the crowbar, the ground slipping away beneath him and suddenly there's a "click", everything is dark. He's being smothered by dirt, dank and cold, covering his face so he can't breathe. His lungs heave and gasp, and gasp but there's no air. Nothing, nothing but earth and he -- 

Laughter-- 

"Jason? Jason! You're right here, Jay." Someone talking distantly. Too calm to be _here_... "Breathe. It's all right. He's not here. You're fine." 

Dick? Is he -- 

"Deep breaths. In and out." 

"Wh--" He blinks, staring uncomprehendingly as Dick's face slowly comes into view, the Joker's voice still ringing in his ears. 

"Hey. You with me?" 

"... Dick," he breathes with quiet recognition. The other man nods, and Jason lets out a slow, shuddering breath, sitting back and briefly clamping a hand over his mouth as if to -- he doesn't even know what. 

Dick gives him a long, sympathetic look. Jason just glares. 

"...It will get better eventually, you know," Dick says awkwardly. "I promise." 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but what the fuck do you know?" Jason snaps tiredly 

"Nothing, I guess. Sorry." There's a long pause. "If that happens again... you remember that observation skills thing that Bruce used to make us do? Where you look and try to catalogue as many details about your current environment as possible, and then he'd make you list them back to him?" It had been one of the first detective skills he'd taught either of them. 

"Yeah?" Jay replies uncertainly, blinking at the non sequitur. 

"Do that. Count furniture, floor tiles, any little detail about where you are right now. Focus on that, not... wherever you're slipping back to." 

"And that's supposed to help?" Jason is dubious. 

"It helps me." 

Jason blinks at him. "What?" 

He shrugs. "I've been doing this a while. Stuff happens to you." Dick takes a deep breath before continuing, eyes fixed on some undefined point out the window. "I had to dig my way out of a grave about a year, year and a half ago. I still feel... cramped, sometimes. But you'll live." 

Jason looks away from him, not really sure how to react. 

"Fuck you," he says after a few seconds. "It's not like I --" He shakes his head. "It didn't exactly 'get better' the last time." 

There's a long stretch of silence where Jason's pretty sure Dick just doesn't know what to say, for once. 

"Jay--" Dick starts, reaching a hand for him. Jason flinches away instinctively, not looking at him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the hand drop. 

"Just forget it, okay?" he mumbles, still not meeting his gaze. He stands and leaves as fast as he can to avoid Dick's fumbling apology, and heads outside. 

He needs some air. A goddamn cigarette, too, but all he has is a pocket full of nicotine gum, so he pops one into his mouth, grimacing at the overly sweet, artificial orange flavor he's come to hate over the course of the week. Fucking Bruce. 

He almost jumps as he hears someone somewhere behind him -- probably Dick not taking a fucking hint, judging by the sound of the steps. Whoever it is, he decides to ignore them until they make themselves known. 

They don't. Dick (or whoever) walks away without a word, leaving Jason standing there, alone with his thoughts. 

* * *

"How did you even _find_ me?" 

They are sitting in the library when Jason asks the sudden question, Bruce reading over some old novel Jason doesn't even recognize. 

And -- okay, maybe Jason's voice cracks a little, but he has to know. It's been driving him fucking nuts for the past -- God, 9 days now -- and he just -- he has to know. He'd taken precautions to avoid being interrupted. Everything had been set up perfectly. They should never have been able to find him. 

He should have died. 

At Jason's words, Bruce looks up, carefully closing his book and laying it aside. "We had the Joker under additional surveillance," Bruce says slowly. "We knew immediately when you broke him out, but we had no idea where you'd taken him." 

That much makes sense. He'd figured as much, come to that conclusion while puzzling it over night after night, staring at the ceiling and avoiding sleep. It's the next part he can't figure out. It's not like he'd told them, not like they would have ever known the significance. 

"So how did you know to come to the cemetery?" 

"I didn't." 

It takes Jason a moment to process that. Then he laughs, a noise that's more hysterical than anything else. "It was a _lucky guess_!?" 

"No. A hunch. One of several. Dick, Tim, Damian and the others were all checking other likely locations. We would have branched out from there. But," he continues, "Once we discovered the... preparations you'd made, the cemetery seemed the most likely choice." 

'Preparations.' Of course. He should've known. There are only so many places in Gotham someone can get their hands on a custom stainless-steel coffin, after all. 

And only so many things to do with it. 

"...You thought you'd be saving _him_. Not me," Jason says quietly. 

"No. I knew I would have been saving _you_ either way." Bruce's words are quiet, controlled, and... earnest. Genuine. Like -- God, like he wants nothing more than for Jason to believe it, and Jason has no fucking idea how to even react to that. 

"Right," he says tonelessly,without conviction. He doesn't look at Bruce. He doesn't have to to imagine the brief, minute downward twitch of the man's lips, the only outward sign of his disappointment. 

* * *

They don't know he can hear them. 

That's something. Home for just under two weeks, and he'd started to forget that he was, in fact, pretty good at this stuff. Now, he's crouched at the top of the stairs listening to Tim and Dick talk, neither of them having any idea he's there. 

It hadn't been spying, really, not at first. Not like he'd been stalking them, following them around with ears perked or whatever. He'd just -- walked into earshot without them realizing, and kept listening. 

It's interesting conversation, to say the least. 

"It's unhealthy. I mean, not that Jason was the picture of mental health before, but seeing him following Bruce around, like... I don't know, a lost puppy or something is downright creepy." Dick pauses. Jason doesn't react, doesn't move, expressionless. "Does it make me a terrible person if I'd rather he was trying to kill us all?" 

"Well. He's more _manageable_ , at least," Tim grumbles. "Apparently, anyway." 

"'Apparently?'" 

"It's _Jason_. I still -- I just don't trust it, is all." 

"I don't think you can feign that level of trauma. Or go _through_ that level of trauma without coming out with major damage." 

"If you think 'damage' prevents Jason from being dangerous, I'm going to have to ask where you've been for the past few years. Or your entire costumed career, for that matter, since every inmate in Arkham says otherwise." 

"We can handle him." 

"We shouldn't have to. There are facilities that are specifically equipped to deal with him, better than we could." 

"Bruce gave him a choice. Jason decided to stay here." 

"I know what Bruce thinks, Dick, I want to know what you think." 

Dick starts to respond, but Jason doesn't listen, padding silently across the floor as he walks away. 

If Dick thinks he belongs in Arkham, he really doesn't want to know about it. 

* * *

"So, are you stalking me because Bruce thinks I need watching, or because _you_ do?" Jason doesn't turn to look at him as he speaks, still staring down at the book in his hands and watching the kid out of the corner of his eye. 

It had taken him a while to notice it, but it's there. Whenever he's home, Tim makes sure he's aware of where Jason is, much like how Jason keeps his eye on the others. Not that this is new -- Bruce and Alfred hover, and Dick 'pops in' on him. But Tim? Tim _lurks_ , like he fully expects Jason to try and kill them while they sleep. 

Which he does, of course. He'd said as much in his little heart-to-heart with Dick the day before. 

The part that gets him the most, he decides, is that the kid won't just come out and say it to his fucking face, instead of this stalking bullshit. 

"Yes," Tim replies bluntly. Jason manages a weak little smile for the first time in ages, even though Tim is clearly serious. 

"Right." He glances up, looking him square in the face. "See anything interesting?" 

Tim does not answer, still watching Jason suspiciously. Jason returns to his book, skimming the words on the page without actually reading them. His attention is still on Tim. 

"If you try anything --" Tim begins harshly. Slightly amused, Jason looks him dead in the eye as he continues. "I will make you sincerely regret ever setting foot in this house." 

For a moment, Jason just stares back at the kid, taking in his grave, severe expression, the hard look in his eyes. And then, suddenly, he laughs, loud and long, laughs like he hasn't laughed in weeks (months, years, a lifetime). Not the hysterical, desperate sound he's been directing at himself but honest, and genuinely amused, if still somewhat tinged with bitterness. He really thinks -- God, the kid really thinks he can hurt him? He really thinks he can do worse to Jason than he's already been through? 

God. It's fucking _precious_ , is what it is, all his posturing and menace. And weirdly flattering that he thinks Jason is in any kind of shape to warrant it. 

Tim doesn't exactly seem to share his amusement, and at the other's scowl, Jason's laughter intensifies, nearly doubling him over, book forgotten, one hand over his eyes. 

When the laughter subsides, and he drops his hand, Tim is gone. Still chuckling, Jason decides that, honestly, that was probably the only real reasonable response on the kid's part. 

* * *

His hands are all healed up now. The bruising's been gone for -- God, almost 2 weeks now -- but the bones had taken a while longer to heal. The splints had been driving him up the _wall_ , and he's desperately glad to have them off. 

He can _hit_ things again. Thank _God_. 

Which is why, right now, he's in the Manor's gym, running over routines he hasn't practiced in weeks with the aid of the large punching bag hanging in the corner. 

He hadn't realized how much he's missed it until the first swing, the first kick, and suddenly it's like a weight he didn't even know was there was abruptly removed. He'd been going fucking stir-crazy and hadn't realized until now. 

At some point Bruce appears in the doorway, but Jason continues with his combination, not wanting to stop before he's finished. 

"Jason?" There's an odd, almost urgent quality to Bruce's voice that makes Jason turns around mid-punch, glancing at him. 

"Yeah?" he responds, somewhat out of breath. 

There's a moment of silence where Bruce just stares at him, like he's -- Jason doesn't even know, checking for damage or something. "Are you all right?" Bruce asks, and (for once) the question is so out-of-the-blue that Jason can only blink at him in confusion, wondering what prompted it. He's fine. A little winded, but he's been working out. He's not freaking out, or yelling, or curled up in a shaking little ball, or any of what he knows the other man's come to regard as the usual "not all right" indicators. Had he done something earlier without realizing it, when he -- 

He -- 

And suddenly, he realizes he hasn't seen Bruce all day. Hasn't seen _anyone_. Hell, he'd even slept in his own room last night, one of a whopping four times he'd managed to over the past three weeks. 

... Huh. 

... No wonder Bruce is so worried. Probably expected to find him unconscious or bleeding or some shit. 

"Jason?" Bruce asks again, though not quite so urgently this time -- Jason guesses seeing him alive and outwardly okay had probably calmed him down somewhat. 

"I'm fine," he replies. "Just felt like working out. Since I got the splints off and stuff." 

There's a long moment where Bruce just looks him over, like he's not quite sure if he believes that, or maybe like he doesn't dare to. Jason just looks back evenly, not really sure what else to do. 

"I understand," Bruce says finally, and slowly nods. Jason just shrugs awkwardly, not even really knowing how to take Bruce's reaction, or the long silence now stretching between them. 

"I -- I'm going to just -- y'know, get back to --" Jason begins, and _fuck_ , this is awkward and he has no fucking idea what to say, so he just kind of breaks off, gesturing lamely at the bag behind him. 

Silence. Jason turns back to restart his routine, but before he can move Bruce is interrupting him. 

"Jason --" the man begins, and Jason tenses, instinctively braces himself, waiting for Bruce to... fuck, he doesn't even know, say something talking about his 'progress,' congratulating him for almost functioning on the basic level of an actual human being or whatever, something utterly humiliating, especially because he wouldn't even fucking mean it like that. "Would you like to spar?" he asks instead. 

Jason -- blinks at the unexpected offer. Then, slowly, a small smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. "What, think you can take me, old man?" he teases. It's a little forced. 

But only a little. 

Bruce's lips twitch ever so slightly, so imperceptibly that Jason would never have spotted it if he wasn't more than used to reading the man by now, and suddenly, Jason's grinning, wide and genuine, as the two of them walk into the center of the room, setting themselves up in their familiar fighting stances. 

"Then let's go."


End file.
